Page 170 of The Menagerie

He knows Mal will be pissed—might even beworried—but he can’t bring himself to care enough to do anything about it.

All he wants to do is lie in bed, curled under the covers.

AT SOMEpoint, he thinks Jay or maybe Clara comes by, but he’s too wrapped up in thoughts of worthlessness to pay attention. Too glued to his bed to even lift his head or turn around at the worried “Rowan?”s that drift into his ears from across the room. It’s hard to tell what’s real anymore—what’s a solid, tangible thing and what’s a construct that his mind has fabricated to try to fuck him over.

It’s been a few days, and Rowan’s barely managed to overcome the heaviness in his bones long enough to get up, take a piss, and drink some water straight from the tap with cupped hands.

Hasn’t managed to eat anything more than a packet of peanut butter crackers, but the thought of cooking anything—even one of the microwavable meals he’s got in the freezer—seems an insurmountable task that makes his head hurt.

But despite his deep exhaustion and the weariness he feels from too much sleep and too little sustenance, all he can think about is Mal. Things have been going so well between them. They’ve grown undeniably closer over the past few months of scening, and especially after Mal’s birthday a couple of weeks ago, and it feels like they’re right on the cusp of something big. So of course it was only a matter of time until the shit hit the fan. Until Rowan’s illness reared its big ugly head and fucked everything up.

He doesn’t evendeserveMal, honestly. Someone like him should be with someone extraordinary, not someone deeply scarred like Rowan is. Someone who can love him the way he deserves and not with some half-baked semblance of love like Rowan must be feeling. How he ever thought that Mal could like—hell,love—him back must be the Ninth Wonder of the World.

Hot tears prick at his eyelids, shriveling up as they roll down his cheeks and stain his pillowcase.

NEARLY Aweek later, Rowan finally musters up the mental and physical strength to grab his phone and plug it in long enough to get it to turn on. He ignores the copious amounts of text and missed call notifications—though he does notice that over half of them are from Mal—and scrolls through his contacts to find Mal’s name. He hesitates, thumb hovering over the Call button.

Should he even bother him? What if his texts and calls are all telling him that he’s pissed that Rowan missed their session and that he wants to stop scening with him? Rowan’s anxiety flares behind his eyelids, and he quickly scrolls to the texts from Mal.

[MS]hey are you coming?

[MS]it’s 830 man if you’re late it’s cool just lmk

[MS]wtf red it’s 9 i’m not gonna wait around here forever

[MS]did something come up last night?

[MS]mfer are you ghosting me?

[MS]quit being a bitch and text me back

[MS]is everything ok?

[MS]i don’t see your name in the obituaries so i assume you aren’t dead

[MS]are you there?

[MS]why is your phone going straight to voicemail

[MS]can you please let me know if you’re ok?

[MS]rowan???

[MS]what the fuck is going on? you’re sick??

[MS]call me

[MS]please

Rowan jabs the Call icon at the top of the text window.

Mal answers before the second ring.

“Hey!” Mal’s voice comes through the receiver, and Rowan can hear the worry lacing his tone.

“Hi, Mal.”

“Are you okay?” The words come out in a rush, each one hitting Rowan in the gut like a bullet.

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